The Black Mountain by Rex Stout

guess you could probably make it to Rijeka barefooted.
    The test was never made because our host appeared and spoke, and Wolfe got up and headed for the door of the house, and I followed. The ceiling of the room we entered wasn’t as low as I had expected. The wallpaper was patterned in green and yellow, but you couldn’t see much of it on account of the dozens of pictures, all about the same size. There were rugs on the floor, carved chests and chairs with painted decorations, a big iron stove, and one small window. By the window was a table with a red cloth, with two places set - knives and forks and spoons and napkins. Wolfe and I went and sat, and two women came through an arched doorway. One of them, middleaged, in a garment apparently made of old gray canvas, aimed sharp black eyes straight at us as she approached, bearing a loaded tray. The other one, following, made me forget how hungry I was for a full ten seconds. I didn’t get a good view of her eyes because she kept them lowered, but the rest of her boosted my rating of the scenery of Montenegro more than the Black Mountain had.
    When they had delivered the food and left I asked Wolfe, Do you suppose the daughter wears that white blouse and embroidered green vest all the time'
    He snorted. Certainly not. She heard us speaking a foreign tongue, and we paid extravagantly for food. Would a Montenegrin girl miss such a chance'He snorted again. Would any girl'So she changed her clothes.
    That’s a hell of an attitude, I protested. We should appreciate her taking the trouble. If you want to take off your shoes, go ahead, and we can rent the haystack by the week until the swelling goes down. He didn’t bother to reply.
    Ten minutes later I asked him, Why do they put gasoline in the sausage'At that, it wasn’t a bad meal, and it certainly was needed. The eggs were okay, the dark bread was a little sour but edible, and the cherry jam, out of a half-gallon crock, would have been good anywhere. Someone told Wolfe later that in Belgrade fresh eggs were forty dinars apiece, and we each ate five, so we weren’t such suckers. After one sip I gave the tea a miss, but there was nothing wrong with the water. As I was spreading jam on another slice of bread our host entered and said something and departed. I asked Wolfe what. He said the cart was ready. I asked, what cart'He said to take us to Rijeka.
    I complained. This is the first I’ve heard about a cart. The understanding was that you report all conversations in full. You have always maintained that if I left out anything at all you would never know whether you had the kernel or not.
    Now that the shoe’s on the other foot, if you’ll excuse my choice of metaphor, I feel the same way. I don’t think he heard me. His belly was full, but he was going to have to stand up again and walk, and he was too busy dreading it to debate with me. As we pushed back our chairs and got up, the daughter appeared in the arch and spoke, and I asked Wolfe,
    What did she say'Sretan put.
    Please spell it. He did so.
    What does it mean'
    Happy going.
    How do I say, ‘The going will be happier if you come along'
    You don’t.
    He was on his way to the door. Not wanting to be rude, I crossed to the daughter and offered a hand, and she took it. Hers was nice and firm. For one little flash she raised her eyes to mine and then dropped them again.
    Roses are red, I said distinctly, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you. I gave her hand a gentle squeeze and tore myself away. Out in the yard I found Wolfe standing with his arms folded and his lips compressed, glaring at a vehicle that deserved it. The horse wasn’t so bad - undersized, nearer a pony than a horse, but in good shape - but the cart it was hitched to was nothing but a big wooden box on two ironrimmed wheels. Wolfe turned to me.
    He says, he said bitterly, that he put hay in it to sit on.
    I nodded. You’d never reach Rijeka alive. I went and got the knapsacks and our